


Cybernetic Conflict

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Prostitution, Healing, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Prompt Fill, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt by bendingsignpost</p><p>Prompt: John is a sexbot who has developed sentience and refuses to follow instructions. Sherlock is brought in to repair him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bendingsignpost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/gifts).



> Quickie fill for a prompt I found on Tumblr.

_Broken._

_Disposable_.

Those were the two words they had used when describing the Unit. In fact, the only words on the crisp, neat sheet of work orders due by the end of the week that struck him at once. How infuriatingly non-descript. His eyes narrowed as he slipped his finger under the page, clicking his tongue twice.

Disposable? Then why the repair order?

But maybe--

Swiping his mobile from the table, he dialed without glancing as he flicked the page onto the counter top, watching it seesaw in the air.

“Why hello Sherlock. Work order went through alright?”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, willing patience into his voice. “Yes, received. But there’s been a mistake—“

“No mistakes, Sherlock,” came the light voice.

“No, there’s a job for Disposal. That isn’t what I—“

“Just a moment.” Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and listened to the shuffling of paper and clothing before, “Ah yes, I see. Fifth down. Mm, yes but it’s on the repair order—“

“Mycroft, I don’t do—“

“Sherlock.” Came the astoundingly,  _infernally_  calm voice that ground Sherlock’s teeth. “You do not have a choice. Until your probation is complete you will put your talents to use is that understood? Now, I look the other way while you,” there came a disgusted sigh. “…  _rummage for parts_ , shall we say, for your own uses. Finish the work order in the deadline, and there won’t be a problem.”

Sherlock knew better than to respond as the line went dead in his hand.

He knew he didn’t have a choice.

\------

_A sexbot._

Had to be, given the location. Disgusting. Brothel? Brothel. His eyes swept the area, gripping his bag of extremely expensive, nearly irreplaceable equipment. He took the now well-worn work order out of his pocket, fifth one in as many days.

Last one of the week.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t incredibly intrigued. The location made him nervous, just outside the safer, more secure London limits. But the nervousness mindlessly thrilled him.

Something  _new_ at the very least.

He approached the door and knocked.

\------

The man almost didn’t let Sherlock in, scoffing at his attire. Not what one would deem a ‘repairman’s uniform’. Sherlock flapped the work order in the man’s face and snarled his government authorization code before the man stepped aside and Sherlock swept in.

The owner led him through the surprisingly sizeable parlor area, the building deceivingly large. It was also surprisingly clean and bare for what the establishment was. All the rooms were shut and not a peep was to be had, and Sherlock briefly wondered what was hidden behind each cedar door.

“Bin nothin’ but trouble, this one.” The man started as Sherlock analyzed every part of the house, barely hanging onto the fringes of attention to inane ramblings of the man. The man grabbed a set of keys off a peg near the stairs. “It used to be popular but now… Well. Migh’ lose a bit o’ money on it but I kin say I’m glad you’re takin’ it off my hands.”

Sherlock stopped dead and blinked rapidly. “Pardon?”

The man stopped and snuffled his hand around his nose and chin, keys jingling. “Takin’ it off my property. Trash it. I git a credit of some kind if I go through the government, righ'?”

Sherlock shifted his weight as he moved the back from his right to his left hand. “Mr. Greene, I have a work order, meaning a  _repair_  order. I am not part of Disposal.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Repair? You…You think you can  _fix_  it?”

Could he fix--? “Of course I can!” Sherlock nearly shouted, unreasonably defensive.  _Did this man know who he was?_  Oh, of course not! He wasn’t from the main city. The man ran a  _sexbot brothel_  for  _God’s sake._

“Righ’ well.” The man looked baffled as he scratched his chin. “If you think you kin fix it… I think that migh’ be even better!” The man turned, inserted a key and twisted a knob. “Put it to work again and make my money back.”

\------

Sherlock shut the door and locked it as instructed, pocketing the keys in his coat. He turned and took in the sight of the machine before him.

It was … On.

Well that was irritating.

It was also fully intact, from the looks of it. Something internal? Circuitry? ‘Broken’ on the work order was hardly anything to go on, but Sherlock found himself starting to like the idea of a challenge.

It was sitting in a chair and looking out the small window, blinking into the sun. Next to it was a bed with a single gray blanket. The room was even barer than the parlor.

Sherlock pursed his lips together as he set his bag down. Proper protocol was machines were to be off prior to any work orders even be sent in. For reset and safety reasons. Could that perverted fool be any more--

“Hello.”

Sherlock blinked as the machine turned to him.

Now he had to suffer conversation? Tedious. Part of the desirability of this punishment he selected out of the many Mycroft had provided was he didn’t require much conversing with people. Or  _things_.

He shifted his hands up to his coat and slipped it off with two quick motions, folding it over his forearm. “Yes, well. Hello.” It was only polite. Mummy didn’t raise a heathen.

The Unit's eyes focused in on the bag at his feet and Sherlock caught the slightest straightening of its back. Apprehension? Defensive? Who would program that?

"What's your name?"

His name?  Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, his coat feeling oddly heavy draped over his arm. “It’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock.” The machine said his name slowly, as if tasting it. “Alright then.”

“Alright.” Sherlock confirmed, incongruously thrown by the entire conversation. “So I’ll just—“ He glanced around.

“I can take your coat.” It said quietly, rising from the chair. It looked… tired. If a machine could look tired.

And for a whore house the machine could hardly be deemed as dressing ‘sexy’. Soft denim jeans with a blue cotton button up. It was barefoot, Sherlock noted absently as it approached.

“For a sexbot, you are hardly dressed in a manner one would expect.” He sniffed casually; stepping back as the machine gently took the coat from his arm.

The machine paused and glanced up at him. “And how would you expect me to dress, Mr. Holmes?”

“I don’t frequent these … establishments. I suppose I … wouldn’t know.” He said honestly. But perhaps not so…  _normal_ , he nearly added.

“Would you like to …frequent?” It asked, looking up at him. It reached and placed a hand on Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock recoiled instantly, pulling away and crossing the, albeit small, room.

“I don’t need a demonstration of your skill set. I am here to complete a task.” He nearly snarled as the bot looked slightly startled before recovering quickly.

“Yes, of course.” It said politely, returning to its task. “Under normal circumstances,” it said softly, changing the subject. “I’d tell you to put your coat on the bed but… In this place it’s probably not the most sanitary.”

Sherlock scowled at the pathetic, sad little blanket of a bedspread as the Unit plucked a hanger from the closet and hung up his coat neatly.

“I um,” Sherlock crossed his arms and gave a brief nod, glancing about the room. “Thank you.”

It shrugged. “Only polite. Nowhere else to put it. Something that nice shouldn’t be dirtied up in a place like this.”

“I have many,” Sherlock replied, rolling up his sleeves. “But thank you.” He motioned. “Sit down again. Please.”

“Right.” The machine seemed to steel itself, left hand clenching and unclenching in a rhythmic motion. Sherlock made a mental note to check its flexor tendons.

“I can sit on the bed. If you like. And you can take the chair.” Politeness again. Programmed deeply? Sherlock made another note.

Sherlock merely nodded as the machine sat, back rigid as Sherlock sat opposite in the wooden seat, reaching and grabbing his bag closer to him.

Sherlock stared at the zipper of the duffle before sitting up and looking at the machine.

Something …wasn’t…

“You wanted to know my name.” He found himself saying. “Why?”

The machine blinked but didn’t advert its gaze. “Just being polite.”

“No.” Sherlock responded immediately, watching the machines synthetic Adam’s apple bob slightly. “Why did you want to know my name?”

The machine clenched its jaw but said nothing

“You answer me when I ask you a question. Do you not understand the question?”

“I understand the question.” It stated briskly.

“Then answer it!”

“No.”

Sherlock jerked back, stunned. Broken. It just broke an unbreakable Law…. That wasn’t…Not at all…

The machine glared at him, completely resolute. Eyes impossibly dark and every muscle rigid. Any faux politeness was quickly fleeing the scene.

Sherlock stood and motioned. “Stand up.”

“No.”

Certainly broken. Completely, utterly…

"Why did you offer to take my coat?"

The Unit's eyes narrowed impossibly, head ducking down and low in a readied posture, as if it were going to bolt.

Its eyes flickered to the door.

Sherlock glanced between the Unit, the door, and his coat and back to the Unit.

"You took the keys." He breathed, awed.

Completely, utterly…  _amazing_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock vs The Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This turned into a thing didn't it.  
> \----  
> ANGST. Bloody hell, the angst. 
> 
> Sorry...

He could see now, the obvious outline of a bulk set of keys tucked into the pocket of its jeans. So blindingly obvious Sherlock clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm as if in penance for his stupidity.

“Alright,” he began calmly as the Unit stood up from the bed. The unit was shorter, but stocky and a little intimidating if he were to be honest. Sherlock knew it was exceptionally stronger. The Law in programming didn’t allow it to harm humans but in this moment Sherlock had the horrifying realization that programming no longer applied. 

This Unit didn’t follow instructions. Didn’t adhere to Laws.

This Unit was impossibly fascinating.

“Alright,” he began again, stepping back. “You have the keys. You can step out of this room. But then what?”

“I’ll manage.” It glowered, taking a step toward the door.

Sherlock took a step back. “And your battery life?” He asked. “Sexbots have only 12 hour span before a recharge is needed. You can’t have—“

“Don’t need a recharge. I have solar cells.” It made a motion with its hand. “Step away from the door. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

Solar cells? Sherlock thought rapidly. The only Unit that had solar cells were—

“A warbot.” He breathed. “You were a Military Unit.”

“I was.” It confirmed, straightening its posture. “Before… _this_.” It spat out as venom. 

“Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Step away from the door. You’re stalling.”

“I’m not. I’m…” Sherlock swallowed, his brain whirring. “I’m fascinated.”

“Don’t be. Nothing special. Now _move_.”

“Wait,” he lifted his arms, showing his palms in peaceful gesture. “You asked for my name… I would like to know yours.”

“You’re assuming I have one.” It retorted quickly, but made no move to continue towards the door.

“Maybe not one given to you.” Sherlock stated. “Warbots are given numbers. Sexbots are given symbols. But you,” Sherlock tapped his forefinger to his lips, contemplating. “You would have given yourself a proper name.”

“I only asked for your name,” the Unit growled out. “Because I wanted to know who was being sent to kill me.”

“Kill—“ Sherlock breathed the word and stopped, hand lowering in shock. ( _Mycroft, stop them!)_ Unreasonably infuriated, he pointed to his bag. “I do not _kill_ things! You _idiot_! I was coming to _fix_ you! Those tools are only for that. You won’t find anything that is apart of a Disposal team. I don’t _do_ Disposal.” Bloody _hell_ how many more times did he have to say it? 

The machine seemed to falter, eyeing the bag with no less suspicion.

“I am not broken.” It managed to say.

“Some would beg to differ!” Sherlock snapped back. “You stupid bloody machine! You are the definition of—“ In two paces, the Unit was on him, its mouth sealed around Sherlock’s, its hand’s tight around his waist. Sherlock reflexively clenched his teeth even as the Unit attempted to shove the hard muscle of tongue into his mouth.

Sherlock yanked back and shoved, but the hold was terrifyingly strong, but he wrenched his head away. “What the hell—!?”

The machine pulled back, face flushed, body temperature and breath hot against Sherlock’s neck. “Fuck me, Sir. I want you, now. Please.” It breathed, its fingers shifted to his belt buckle. “Please, fuck me. Fucking hell. I need you.” It moaned and Sherlock yanked and shoved harder. This time it released and stumbled back.

“The hell is going on with you!? Stay back!” He roared. _Broken. You’re forgetting it’s broken. Dangerous. Disposable._ _Broken_.

It stumbled back, breathing heavily, eyes wide with horror. “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t. I don’t.” It clutched his head, as if in shocked pain. “Fuck. FUCK! I can’t stop it. I can’t stop what they did to me. Programming. Sometimes it just… I can’t.” It looked like it was about to collapse to the floor, legs shaking, favoring the left.

“I can’t breathe.” It stuttered out and Sherlock let out an exasperated snort.

“You don’t need to! You don’t need air to exist!”

“You said, you were here, to fix me.” It managed weakly. “Please, just _help_ me.”

Sherlock stared as the Unit struggled to gather itself.

“Oi, there!” There came a gentle tap on the door that had Sherlock nearly jumping out of his skin. The machine’s head shot up to Sherlock, eyes bright and glassy, begging, still struggling for its unneeded air.

“Heard shoutin’. You a’igh’ in there mate?”

“I—“ Sherlock took a breath, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. _Help me._ “Fine.” He called, voice shaking so he let out a cough to clear his throat. “I’m fine. Just ah … Voice modulator issue. Be out shortly to discuss with you.” He called back and held his breath as the man shuffled off down the hall.

Sherlock took a deep breath, before taking a large step toward the Unit and kneeling to it, as it struggled for air.

“You’re um.” He mentally scrambled, unfamiliar with this situation. “You’re fine. Alright? Just… Just breathe.”

The machine nodded silently, hand clenching and unclenching its grip on its jeans.

“Alright then.” Sherlock said quietly. “See? You’re fine. You’re alright.” He gave a single pat to its back.

The Unit eyed the door carefully, before looking back to Sherlock. “It’s John. My name. My name is John.”

“Alright John.” Sherlock said slowly as he stood. “Let’s get you out of here.”

\------

The man rubbed his neck; stretching in such a manner the tank top rode up, exposing his gut. “Shame that.” He muttered, watching Sherlock pack his tools. “Really though’ you coulda fixed it.”

“Mm. Yes well,” Sherlock shrugged. “A lot more work needed to be done than I originally thought. More work to fix it than it would be worth.”

“So I git my money, righ’?”

“Mm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock reached into his bag. “Uh, well Mr. Greene, I hope a cheque will do?”

“From you?” The man startled briefly. “Thought had to go through government process.”

“Well, that could take months. I like to curtail that. I assume that’s alright with you?”

“Kin you make it to ‘cash’?”

“That would be preferable, Mr. Greene.”

\------

Once the Unit… John… was powered down and quietly and secretly deposited into Baker Street; Sherlock had the agonizing wait of twenty-four hours before he could restart it again.

Standard protocol, one that he had found in the past to have bearings as glitches and issues arose when not shut down and restarted properly. So he waited, settling John on the couch in the living area, nearest the window for natural light, as he set into his routine of days off before the next work order came through.

He paced around the flat, rearranging his books and papers, placing his skull and iron plate neatly on the mantle, unnecessarily anxious.

No need to be anxious. Why was he anxious?

At the end of the day, Sherlock checked his watch and settled with his tools near John, as he found the switch on the Unit’s neck and wrist under its synthetic flesh to insert his dowel and twist, rebooting.

He stepped aside almost immediately, dropping the dowel back into his bag and kicking the duffle back under the couch.

John opened its eyes and blinked once, and Sherlock waited while he knew it was doing its system check.

Sherlock crossed his arms and stood behind the coffee table, staring down and waiting for signs of awareness.

John blinked again. It shifted, working its limbs and flexing. It sat up and took a breath, lungs expanding and expelling. He looked up to Sherlock and looked startled.

“You kept your word.” It stated, blinking up at him and flexing its fingers.

Sherlock snorted. “You doubted? I told you, twenty-four hours, no more no less. And see?” He made a motion around the flat. “New location. My flat, to be exact.”

John stood and stretched its left leg, rubbing it slightly. “Yes. Yes I see. Um.” It glanced around. “You just move in?”

“I… no.” Sherlock frowned. “No, why?”

“I uh, nothing.” The machine gave a shrug and wry smile, before dropping it and sobering. “Thank you.” It murmured. “Thank you very much that wouldn’t um. That’s quite a good thing you did. For me.”

Sherlock stepped away quickly, flapping a hand behind him. “Yes well.” He cleared his throat, walking into the kitchen. “Tea?”

\------ 

It was odd, living with something that wasn’t a…. thing, to be exact. He had expected, once John’s functions had come all online and it was successfully rebooted, that it would walk out the door. Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to stop it. But he supposed it had nowhere to go. It certainly didn’t have any money or knew of anyone. At least, it hadn’t mentioned it did. But then again Sherlock found himself hesitant to ask.

But John had stayed. It watched telley, read books and once Sherlock had walked into an argument it seemed to be having with the laptop. Whether this was a real conversation, or one made of John’s own frustration, Sherlock hadn’t asked. It was more amusing to come up with his own conclusions.

It would power down to sleep mode in the living room, despite Sherlock’s mention of an upstairs room. John preferred to sleep nearest the door, whether this stemmed from its warbot days or a paranoid programming fault, Sherlock wasn’t able to say. Any mention of his tools being near John was met with anger and a wariness the bot seemed unable to shake.

Sherlock hoped this would get better with time.

\------

Sherlock left for work on Monday as usual, work order having been received. John had snatched it from his hand beforehand and sniggered at number four. Workerbot, a plumber to be exact, lodged in an underground sewage system, glitching and unable to dislodge half its body from the pipeline.

“Have fun!” John had singsonged. Sherlock had glared at it as he schucked on his rubber boots and packed copious amounts of gloves and hand sanitizer.

“Give it here,” he asked, reaching out for the paper. He leaned over John, hands brushing over the Unit’s shoulder and back and he could practically _feel_ the circuitry switch on.

_Oh no._

“John, wait—“ he was silenced by tongue, this time John having turned and caught him more off guard than usual. John’s deep kisses were thick like vanilla ice cream. Insistent and all consuming unless kicked back to itself.

“Stop,” Sherlock pulled back, gently pushing John away. “Stop, stop now.”

“Please,” John lurched forward again, fingers grasping. “Please Sir.” He all but moaned, John pressing itself to Sherlock, hot and hard against his groin, programming initiating blood flow and body temperature to sexual status. “Christ, fuck me…Fuck me now…”

Sherlock swallowed, his traitorous body reacting to words from the worst kind of cliché porn. Damnit, he was better than this.

“John!” He snapped, shaking the bot twice, jolting it. “Stop this!”

John blinked rapidly, face crumpling with realization and Sherlock stepped back, looking away, feeling ridiculous that he felt a sudden need to allow a machine some privacy to recover itself.

“I… I’m sorry.” John murmured. It reached and handed the work order to Sherlock, who took it gently from it.

“I can fix that, John.” He sighed as the Unit abruptly turned and began to walk away from him. “I can take a look, at least. It’s a program. It can be uninstalled.”

“Go to work.” It snapped at him, plopping on the couch and snatching the remote from the stand.

“John, I can fix you!” He shouted over the television, but John stared pointedly ahead.

“Stubborn bloody machine!” He shouted, stomping down the stairs.

Sherlock slammed the door on his way out.

\------ 

John didn’t eat. Or drink. But it enjoyed cooking. And making drinks. It sometimes even liked to hold them in its hands, a plate or a cup. When Sherlock had asked why, John hadn’t given a clear answer. Sherlock had let it go.

But if John enjoyed making tea and sandwiches who was Sherlock to stop it?

But then it always came back to the fact he couldn’t stop John from doing anything.

\------

“Don’t _touch_ that!” Sherlock shouted as he came up the stairs, finding John over the mantel handling an object.

John was clearly startled, nearly fumbling and dropping the thing all together. But it clutched on to it, staring at Sherlock.

“What? Why? It’s just a piece of iron.”

Sherlock stalked over and snatched it from its hands, stepping away to the kitchen.

“Sherlock.” John followed him and Sherlock did his best not to bristle with agitation. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Leave it.”

John crossed its arms and gave him that hated, even stare. “Something.” He prodded.

“It’s none of your business, is what this is.” Sherlock turned the object over in its hand. Heavy iron concave piece that fit neatly in the curve of his palm.

He sighed and placed it down on the kitchen counter. “Part of a chest plate.” He confessed quietly.

“A chest…” John stopped, analyzing his body language. “Something you built?” John asked, as it scooped up a cup of tea it had made prior to Sherlock's return.

“Yes.”

“You’ve… built things?” John asked slowly, as if unsure it was hitting on a subject it should avoid. “Built automatons of your own?”

Sherlock smoothed a hand over the iron surface deliberately, as if tasting the texture of the metal.

“I did. Years ago.” He added as he pulled his hand away, turning back to John. “That piece,” he motioned vaguely to the counter. “Was the first I had created.” He cleared his throat and stepped away further, as if upset, and John tilted its head in encouragement to continue.

“It was a simple … creature. Very basic commands. Low AI level. At the time, finding scraps of memory board and circuitry were difficult.”

“At the time…”

“1988, to be precise.”

“So you were…”

“I was twelve. So, no license to participate in such … constructions.”

“That’s incredible.” John said with a soft smile as he held the mug between his hands, cupping it gently. Sherlock paused briefly, as if gauging the sincerity of the words. John looked down at the tea in its hands. He still hadn’t taken a sip, but the act of holding something warm and undemanding seemed to always be soothing.

“Yes well, some didn’t think so.” He continued after a moment. “They had it… destroyed. That piece, it’s what I have left. A reminder.”

The Unit opened its mouth then promptly snapped it shut, and Sherlock could practically hear the whir of its thought process, running risk assessment.

 _A reminder of what?_ It might have asked, but knew better. Knew it might not receive an answer, knew it might antagonize. So it said nothing. For this, Sherlock was grateful.

“What did.” It stopped abruptly, lifting the string of the teabag twice before resettling it in its cup. “What did … you make? You said… creature.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gave a shrug of one shoulder, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “It was a simple K9 construction.”

John blinked. “Ah, a dog?” It asked to clarify.

“Yes. A canine structure. Like I said, simple. Basic. One might even say stupid. First attempts aren’t always perfect, you know.” He began to snap, his defense rising, finding it difficult to control. He needed to cease this conversation now.

“What was the name?” John asked calmly.

“The—“ Sherlock glanced up, observing the subtle way John’s head tilted again, genuinely curious. Sherlock focused his gaze back to the countertop, pads of his fingers brushing against the grain. He was suddenly hyperaware of the iron plate behind him.

“Redbeard.” _What are you doing? Stop stop stop._ “I … His name was Redbeard.” He blinked twice before glancing at John, nearly doing a double take. “What are you _smiling_ at?” He suddenly snapped, pulling himself straight, abruptly unnerved by the show of teeth as John grinned at him.

John cleared its throat and seemed to pull itself back, but the soft smile remained. “Nothing. Just. You said _his_. Is all.” John stated carefully. Sherlock knew he hadn’t moved an inch but whatever flashed in his eyes had John swallowing, smile vanishing completely.

 _His_.

It.

His.

Sherlock could feel his lungs attempting to expand deeply and his blood beginning to quicken. He spun and reached, snatching the plate off the granite and clutching it tightly. “You think I give a damn about this… this this this _thing_!?” He almost roared, and John pulled back, eyes wide and rooted to the spot.

He turned again and charged to the stairs when in three steps John had caught up to him, fingers brushing against his elbow. “Sherlock—“

“Get off me!” Sherlock snarled, wheeling around pushing the machine back. “ I don’t need _this_ ,” he flung his arm in the air, the weight of the plate throwing off his balance. “No reminders because I _know_ , John. I know what I need to do.”

“What do you need to do?” John asked, arms raised slightly as if Sherlock might strike him.

“Get rid of it. Be done with it. Bloody _sentiment_!” The word was spat out like a slur and he turned again for the stairs when John reached. This time he didn’t merely touch; he gripped tightly and pushed, Sherlock stumbling toward the stairs as the Unit shoved him hard against the wall.

“Enough now!” John commanded in a tone that had Sherlock freezing from the authority of it. “Enough.” He said, a bit more gently, even as the tight hold remained. “It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.”

“Let me go,” Sherlock snarled, even as John’s grip held strong around his wrists, the force pinning him to the wall.

“Not until you stop this and think clearly.” John said evenly, trying to follow Sherlock’s gaze even as the man struggled.

“You,” Sherlock snarled at John as he sucked in a noisy, angry breath. “You _pathetic_ waste of machinery. Can’t even obey a simple Law! What good are you!? Broken. Disposable they said! Bloody _Redbeard_ was smarter! He wouldn’t have… he…He never would…He…He was…” His throat was closing, straining as his neck constricted. Choking. He struggled to find the breath, horrified as he felt as if his lungs were collapsing. His knees nearly buckled but John held him tight.

“Easy,” John breathed against him, synthetic lungs as steady and rhythmic as the faux heart that beat in its chest. “Easy, you’re fine. Just breathe.”

“I—“ Sherlock heaved in the air deeply, having the terrible realization that breathing air in wasn’t the problem, but that he struggled to let the air _out_.

“Okay. Okay, you’re fine. You’re doing fine.” John let up a little, but still anchored its hands like gentle cuffs around his wrists, fingers rubbing against the soft underpart of Sherlock’s wrist.

“You don’t. Need to. Do this.” Sherlock struggled out; mortified beyond belief.

“Returning the favor.” John said gently. “Easy now.”

Sherlock had the humiliating awareness that John was the only thing holding him back from buckling to the ground. As if on cue, John began to lower him to the floor, his back sliding down the length of the wall as his legs gave out. John had strength. True, brutalizing strength that Sherlock knew he could apply and damage if he truly wanted. But the Unit was gentle as he helped the man down, Sherlock’s legs awkwardly folding under him as if he were a struggling newborn fawn.

“They tore him apart, John.” He stammered out, managing to find the air to say the words. “They didn’t just… They didn’t just turn him off. They—“

“You don’t have to—“

No but he _did_. He had to. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save him. Couldn’t help. They found him. Needed to teach me a lesson. Understand?”

John shifted his weight on his knees and pulled Sherlock towards him, and the man placed his forehead on the offered shoulder, managing another heaving breath as he felt a hand placed on his back.

“I understand. I do.”

“He had a voice modulator—“ His chest was being squeezed.

“Sherlock—“

“He was _screaming_. I begged my brother, I _begged_ him…”

“Shhh,” John murmured gently, hand-circling Sherlock’s lower back in soothing motions. Sherlock realized he was shaking. “Shhh, you’re alright. Just focus on breathing. Feel mine?” Sherlock nodded into the shoulder. “Then focus on that.”

Sherlock could feel wetness brimming, just on the offset of his eye. He blinked them away, face burning, throat working hard as he focused on the breathing. A simple task. A single work order. Feeling John’s chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.

“They'll consider you broken. Disposable.” He managed after several minutes. John remained still and solid against him.

“Do you think I’m broken?” John asked softly into his hair.

 _No. No more than me._ The words didn’t need to be said, he simply clutched John tighter.

“They’ll find you. They’ll realize. And it’ll happen all over again.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of that.” John said so very gently, bringing a hand to Sherlock’s hair and raking through it once. “I’ll be alright.”

He closed his eyes, finding his hand tightening possessively around John’s waist, continuing to focus on breathing.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Okay. I'll go sit in a corner and think about what I've done to our boys. And Redbeard. Fuck. 
> 
> But there's smut and fluff in the next and final chapter....


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know.” Sherlock said with a shrug. “I just observed.”
> 
> John shook his head, but he was smiling. “Bloody amazing. You should put that to use, you know.”
> 
> Sherlock snorted, but John continued. “No, honestly. I bet some real good can come from it. You’re like a detective, seeing all the details. Putting a story to the image. It’s remarkable.”

When the front door opens and closes, Sherlock does his best not to leap from his sitting chair with barely contained energy. A quick flick to the clock confirms that is not even 2:00pm, John having returned before the mutually agreed upon deadline.

There’s a rustling of plastics as the bot makes his way up the stairs and Sherlock attempts to relax and look indifferent, as John dumps his baggage onto the table.

“Ruddy things, honestly.” He’s muttering to himself as he strips himself of his jacket flecked with budding raindrops and hangs it neatly on the rack.

“What things?” Sherlock asks, casually turning the page of his sheet music.

John makes an exasperated sound and goes to hand Sherlock’s card back. The man makes a motion with his head toward the coffee table, the machine dropping it with a clack on the wood surface.

“Chip ‘n PINs!” He says, shaking his head as he scoops up the laptop and drops himself onto the opposite armchair. “Rubbish things they are. Stood there like an idiot while it argued with me.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh?”

“Mm.” John answered with a vague nod, as if it were the most casual encounter. “Complete wanker.”

Sherlock relaxed fractionally. “No other… Nothing else happened, did it?”

“If you’re worried about if I spoke with anyone, you can relax. Other than the friendly little bint of a self-cashier, I didn’t interact with anyone. Oh, I did say hello to Mrs. Hudson just outside on the street. I assumed that was alright.”

Mrs. Hudson. Back from Mexico. Sherlock frowned. Another uncontrollable variable in this arrangement.

“Oh.” John said suddenly, pulling out Sherlock’s back-up mobile. “I took a pic.” He stated, tossing Sherlock the phone.

Sherlock smirked, catching it easily and turning it over with his fingers.

“Are you going to--?” John led carefully.

“Perhaps later.”

“Come on. Do that thing you do. It’s amazing.”

That craved feeling was back, flooding his chest at the praise. He shuffled his music into an orderly stack and placed them neatly beside him. Picking up the phone, he flicked through photos.

John set the laptop down, leaning forward with his hands on his chin, looking child-like with earnest anticipation.

“Last image?” Sherlock asked, eyes flicking to John who merely nodded, a scarcely controlled grin on his face.

 _Hmm_. Sherlock frowned at the picture. An older woman, yellow sweatshirt, jeans, ballet style slip-ons. She was reaching up for a can, soup?... maybe. John was five meters back when he had taken it. No one else was with her. There were stacks of items in her cart. Duplicates of items? Sherlock cocked his head.

“Well?” John prompted.

Sherlock tossed the mobile back at John, who snatched it from the air. “Divorced 45 year old woman, hoarder. No children. Three… No, only two cats. She hoards items, not animals. Unemployed. Drives a station wagon?”

John balked at the pointed question. “I… yes, actually. I saw her in the car park. Interior was trashed.” He slipped the mobile back into his pocket. “Amazing. How did you know all that?”

“I don’t _know_.” Sherlock said with a shrug. “I just observed.”

John shook his head, but he was smiling. “Bloody amazing. You should put that to use, you know.”

Sherlock snorted, but John continued. “No, honestly. I bet some real good can come from it. You’re like a detective, seeing all the details. Putting a story to the image. It’s remarkable.”

“Detective with a criminal and drug history like mine?” He snorted, sweeping the dressing gown over his lap in an agitated movement. “I’ll be doing this repair work for the rest of my life. Mycroft will see to it. I don’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice, Sherlock.” John said gently, that sincere, soft tilt to his voice doing odd things to man’s chest.

“You ought to put away the groceries.” He snapped, shifting in the chair to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Can’t have the milk going bad.”

He couldn’t see the Unit, not even from his peripheral, but he could hear the hesitation before John stood and went into the kitchen without a word.

* * *

How four words put Sherlock in this position, he was still struggling to comprehend.

In the short months John had been here he still wouldn’t let Sherlock near him with his tools. They hadn’t had anymore… _sexual incidents_ , as Sherlock catalogued them, in the last few weeks but John had begun to show various signs of struggling. Mainly, his limp.

“It’s not a limp, Sherlock, I’m _fine_.” Came the near growl as Sherlock crossed his arms, following the machine through the living room.

“You’re favoring it, that isn’t supposed to happen. If you just let me…”

“ _No_.”

“John, you are being ridiculous, you won’t even need to be turned off…”

“Stop. It.”

“ _Don’t you trust me_?” Sherlock had practically shouted, and the machine whirled around.

“I trusted him too!” He yelled back fiercely, expression hard before switching, looking stricken at his own words.

Sherlock’s heart thumped hard at the expression. It looked so wrong on John. “Who—“

“Just forget it.” John turned again, quickly heading upstairs.

Was John thick? Since when did he forget anything?

“ _John_.”

John continued on as Sherlock stayed on the landing, brain whirring rapidly.

War bot. Injury. Trust issues. Sexual triggers. ‘ _Please,_ _Sir’_.

“Oh God.” He whispered and the thump of John’s footsteps ceased.

“Worked it out did you. Only a matter of time I suppose.” John stared straight ahead; back slightly bent as if in defeat. “Go on then.” The tone was dreary, crushed. “Condense my trauma into a neat little deduction. Go on. Feel clever.”

“I don’t want to.” Came the truth and John turned, eyes wary and shielded. “Come here.” He requested, in a tone so soft he could scarcely believe it was his own.

John did nothing but stare, silent. Sherlock motioned. “Come here, please.”

Reluctantly, John took a step back down and turned his body, heavily making his way back down. He stopped just short of the landing, a full head above the repairman.

“I am not a kind person, John.” And at that, John raised both eyebrows; mouth quirking as if he couldn’t believe that was the man’s opening line. Sherlock took a breath. “I am not kind. I’ve never been described as ‘good’. Talented? Yes. Brilliant? Oh, yes. But never good or kind or even ‘nice’.” He paused and shifted his stance, looking up at John’s cautious expression. “But you are. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

John swallowed hard, jawline moving tightly. “I’m not.” _‘Not a person’_ , left unsaid.

“You are. To me. You are.” He reached for John’s clenched hand, fingers ghosting over knuckles. “You make me…” He struggled for words as he pulled back and John patiently waited, eyes searching his own. “You make me want to earn that. Your trust. Your…I am trying, John. I said I am not good. I am not kind. But I would like to be. For you.”

“God,” John took a shuddering breath and bowed his head sharply and Sherlock felt a pit drop beneath him.

“I got it wrong.” He said quickly, nodding and backpedaling, literally and physically, turning to make his way off the landing, heat of embarrassment making creeping its way to his neck and face.

“You haven’t got it wrong.” A hand on his, fingers grasping and he flexes his hand, interlocking with the other. “You haven’t got it wrong.” John’s eyes are terribly bright, alert and focused as he pulls him gently toward him.

John leans forward, and Sherlock is paralyzed as soft lips are against his own.

It’s nothing like any of their previous kisses. But he supposes now, those kisses weren’t John’s. This… This is John. Warm and wet and a little rough like bits of sugar, but yielding with a touch of control.

He’s terrified. Terrified of John losing himself. Of losing the humanity to the programming. To sexual conditioning that would leave the John he knew far, far behind.

It takes John’s hand against his jaw for Sherlock to blink and remember to breath. Stunned, he pulls back and searches the other’s face. “John? I… are you…” he breathes.

“I'm here. Sherlock. I'm here.”

And John smiles and Sherlock is lost.

* * *

John didn’t know it could be this wonderfully slow.

And Sherlock was so _careful_ with him, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat as he smoothed his large hands over John’s legs and inner thighs.

He’s skimming, he knows. Skimming the surface of programming looking to reboot and he waits, expectant. But nothing happens, even as Sherlock oils him, stretching him, licking him –-- “Not necessary, Sherlock,” he had managed and the man gave a deliberate swipe of tongue that had John’s hips jerking up.

“Is it pleasurable?” Sherlock had rumbled and John nodded. _Yes, yes God, yes._ And the other had smiled a knowing smile as he stroked a hand down John’s flank and _sucked._

John _sobbed_ , toes curling, fingers tearing the threads of the sheets as slim, talented fingers rocked inside him.

It was ages it had seemed, before Sherlock placed a deliberate, steady hand on John’s hip and kissed him, mouth slicked with oil and explicitly vulgar. The kissed deepened, and it was the most thorough kiss John had ever known.

“Alright?” And John nodded, unable to form words, circuitry near haywire. “Tell me, please.”

“I’m—I’m alright.”

“How do you want me?” And John blinked, trying to understand the true meaning of the question as Sherlock continued to stroke his skin.

“Inside.” He said carefully, but assuredly and Sherlock paused.

“You have agency, John. Anything you want, just… you can tell me I won’t… I wouldn’t---“ John lifted, shifting on his elbows as he kissed him silent.

“Like this. This is perfect.” Sherlock smiled, a small one that still managed to reach his eyes.

The other nodded and John saw stars.

* * *

“His name was General Keaton.”

Sherlock’s head shifted on the pillow, eyes bleary as he tucked his head against the nape of John’s neck, the other settled tightly in his arms.

Hardly pillow talk, Sherlock knew, but John struggled with communicating his troubles, so he waited, pressing a kiss to his hair as an acknowledgement.

“I had been damaged in battle, my shoulder.” And John worked his left as a demonstration. Sherlock nodded but remained silent. “I was being repaired, when he requested me. I could walk, I wasn’t to be decommissioned, so I was told to go. They had another type of repairman there. One I hadn’t seen before. They shut me down and when I woke up, I was with the General for the rest of my tour.”

He didn’t want to hear this. He really didn’t. Not now, not in the bed they had just shared. His arms tightened fractionally and John fell silent.

“I’m sorry. I’m upsetting you.”

“S’ fine.” Sherlock murmured into the naked flesh, thankful the other couldn’t see his face.

 “It’s not fine, clearly. I’m sorry, this was terrible timing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Who’s John?” Sherlock asked, switching subjects without necessarily changing topics.

John twitched in surprise, “John. Yes.” There was a breath of a chuckle that let Sherlock relax a touch. “Captain John Watson. He was an on site army medic.”

“You took his name.” Sherlock said quietly, shutting his eyes and feeling John nod.

“I did.”

“Why?” At the hesitant shift, Sherlock continued. “He means something to you. Enough for you to take his name. I can only presume he is a positive figure for you.”

“He was.”

“Was?”

“He died. He…He saved me.” And Sherlock’s sudden stillness, John elaborated. “He didn’t die saving me, but he saved me once. Then six days later he was killed in an IED explosion.” There was a thoughtful pause. “He was remarkable. Older gent, but moved like a bloody cheetah when a someone called for aid. He was one of only a handful of medics who would go out of their way to save what were considered mere weapons.”

“You aren’t that.” Sherlock said fiercely, and John squeezed his hand.

“I know. I know that. Thank you.” The mood grew slightly solemn. “He saved me, and I didn’t get an opportunity to repay the favor. I took his name. I mean, I hadn’t got one so…” John shrugged against Sherlock. “It was my way to honor him. But it feels tarnished now. After everything at the brothel I had done.”

Sherlock said nothing to that, but after a beat he shifted his hold, cupping John’s side and prodding him gently to turn around. John complied, settling himself and being face to face with the other.

“If events had not occurred… you wouldn’t be here with me right now.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, that’s terribly insensitive I would imagine.”

“It’s true. I most certainly would not.” And Sherlock felt John brush a hand through his curled bangs. “I like it here. With you.”

They settled into silence, holding each other tightly. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, nothing is going to happen.”
> 
> The man gave a sneer, shaking his head almost violently. “You keep saying that but it’s true. It will. It’s only a matter of time. So. I just… need to savor this. What we have now.”
> 
> “Because it’ll end.”
> 
> It wasn’t said as a question, and Sherlock stared at John’s suddenly serious face. He nodded slowly, hating himself.

With John now settled atop his table, Sherlock felt a spur of anxiety course through his frame, fingers nervously fiddling with his equipment as he stared down at the other.

John stared back, unblinking for several moments, waiting, before clearing his throat loudly and jerking his chin up at the man. “Are we uh, going to fix my leg or …?”

Sherlock forced a hard shake, nodding his head rapidly. “Right. Yes, of course. Just uh.” He reached, snapping on the overhead light, watching slightly amused as John squinted and blinked blearily.

“Is this going to take long?” John asked. He stretched back on the table, hands reaching behind him to brace his palms against the wood in lazy, cat-like movement.

The repairman sat himself, running his thumb carefully along the cord and jack in his hand. He smoothed his other palm down John’s bare leg, fingertips deftly searching for the small, nearly invisible seam where thigh met hip. “Shouldn’t.” He replied simply, as he gently began prodding along the curve of John’s upper leg, feeling the stiff metal of his hipbone beneath synthetic skin and muscle.

“And you’re sure I don’t need to be turned off for this?”

“I’m just doing a preliminary check. While I’m fairly certain the hollow frame is fine, it’s the circuitry I’m worried about. It’s better to check that first, which will all be painless.

“The matter of your,” Sherlock sighed, scratching his chin. “Your forced programming. The...” He rotates a hand in the air, and when John doesn’t respond, “The sex programming.” He says bluntly.

“Uh-huh,” John says.

Sherlock flushes, “As it’s a forced program, not part of any initial build, it’ll be a simple matter of uninstalling it.”

“And you can do that with that uh, thing?”

“My encode-reader, yes. Basic equipment for all error checks, reboots and installations. Once plugged in, I’ll un-install it. Takes about twenty minutes.”

“Amazing,” John said with a hint of wonderment and a bit of apprehension.

Sherlock looked up at John behind his bangs, hesitating. “Did…did you _want_ to be turned off for it? Wake up when I’m all finished?”

A few months ago, John would have recoiled harder than a fired shotgun at the mere mention. Now, he tilted his head, glaring up at the light, before leveling Sherlock with a steady look.

“Up to you, honestly.”

“You trust me?” Sherlock chuckled, before stilling his searching hand, finding the input and output for his jack and reader.

“Yes. I do.”

Oh. Sherlock focused his eyes intently at John’s bare waist, not daring a glance up, before averting his down to his hand with the jack, letting the slim red cord of it pool on the floor. The tail end plugged to his reader that sat heavily on the adjacent chair. He reached, leaning forward, and plugged it in to the low left side of John’s hip.

John stiffened immediately, and sucked in a harsh breath. Sherlock threw his head back and up, eyes wide at the Bot. “What, did that hurt?” Sherlock looked at his cord, slightly panicked. “It shouldn’t. I— It—“

John shook his head. “No! No, sorry. No pain, like you said. Just—“ He winced and paused dramatically, watching Sherlock’s eyes grow like saucers. “Bit different. You plugging in something other than your cock into my body.”

Sherlock stared, stunned and incredulous, before John went lax and burst out laughing.

Sherlock leaned back and ran a hand through his hair, as if smoothing down his briefly ruffled feathers. He shot the other a withering look. “Honestly, John? That isn’t funny.” Unfortunately, the power of the statement was lost as he began to smile through the words.

“I’m sorry, I had to.” John snorted. “Been wanting to use that since this morning.”

“Well, I’m beginning to suspect the humor and timing sections were programmed by an American.”

John only doubled over and laughed harder, and Sherlock found himself chuckling in return.

\----

 

_You trust me?_

_Yes. I do._

 

\----

 

Sherlock woke with a start, throat hitching with a swift inhale, legs kicking out, bucking the duvet from his body. His temple was damp, scalp sweaty as he tangled fingers through his hair, forcing a slow, calm exhale as he placed a hand on John’s back, still asleep, warm and breathing.

Thankfully, whenever John powered down, he stayed down, nothing waking him until his system did a hard reboot at the appointed time. His heart beating wetly in his chest, Sherlock took another deep inhalation, expelling it from his nose, attempting to calm himself. It was a dream of some kind, a nightmare, although the small tendrils of memory were fleeing his mind. He knew if he truly wished, he could snatch them and rein them back. However, he had a feeling these were not memories he wished to keep.

He didn’t bother turning behind him to check the clock, simply rearranging himself behind John, securing an arm around his waist, resting his forehead against the bare, broad expanse of his back. He took another breath, letting the air flow out slowly once more.

“Alright?”

Eyes snapping open, Sherlock felt a small shift and reassuring squeeze of fingers on the hand that lay flush against John’s belly.

“Fine.” He murmured, pressing his forehead once more to John’s back, closing his eyes. “You’re up, but it’s still dark outside. Certainly doesn’t feel like six-am.” He said, muffled against John.

John was quiet for a time. “Did you want to talk about it?” He asked in a careful tone.

“I would imagine as we’re headed into winter, the mornings get progressively darker as, you know,… Sun, Earth, rotation…” He drifted off vaguely.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No, I don’t wish to talk about it.”

John shifted, blankets tenting as he twisted in the sheets toward Sherlock. The man lifted his arm to allow the other to move, before settling it across John’s hip once more, fingers brushing against the dip of his lower back.

John looked lovely like this, Sherlock thought to himself, right before John kissed him, sweet and soft like always. Well, _not always_ , Sherlock corrected, remembering last night. When John had suckled and tugged on his lower lip, growling as he did so, rolling them over in sweaty blankets and laughing into his neck.

Sherlock swallowed, a painful knob swelling in his throat. He pulled away and averted his gaze to the window, feeling John’s confused eyes upon him.

“What’s wrong?” John’s tone wasn’t confused, it sounded upset, and the painful lump grew.

“Nothing,” he growled out, feeling frayed and defensive.

John mere inches from his face, eyes searching his own, hand gently rubbing his side, was enough to make him shiver from the emotional exposure.

“Talk to me. Please. What’s upsetting you? Why are you so frightened at night?”

“Because I’m _happy_ , John.” He snapped, and John pulled back, slightly startled. “I’m happy and that makes me terrified.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Sherlock had to swallow, several times, anything to keep the lump in his throat at bay. “Because I’m _never_ happy. Never satisfied. I don’t deserve… I don’t get.” He paused, collecting himself. John remained silent. “I don’t get the happy ending, John,” he managed. “That doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get that. Ever. And now I’m happy, so something will happen. Something horrible and beyond description. I don’t get to _keep_ this.”

“Sherlock, nothing is going to happen.”

The man gave a sneer, shaking his head almost violently. “You keep saying that but it’s true. It will. It’s only a matter of time. So. I just… need to savor this. What we have now.”

“Because it’ll end.”

It wasn’t said as a question, and Sherlock stared at John’s suddenly serious face. He nodded slowly, hating himself.

“Yes,” he replied, voice breaking in a soft way. “And what I feel for you… I know I wouldn’t be able to take it. But it’s worth it now to me, even if it just… stops, later.” He ended lamely.

John’s serious look softened a touch. “What you feel for me.” He repeated quietly. “What would that be?”

Sherlock would have normally bristled at such blatant prodding, but he ran a hand down John’s bare shoulder, feeling exposed in more ways than just his naked body. “Sentiment. Love, maybe.” He winced at the words, feeling beyond ridiculous and over-romantic. “… Whatever that means.” He grumbled.

“I’m not very sure what that means,” John replied quietly, and Sherlock felt a tremor run through his own body at the admission. “Love, that is.” He explained. “I would like to, someday.” John leaned over and kissed him once more, just a light peck, before smiling against his mouth. “Everything will be okay.”

Sherlock forced calm once more, breathing heavily through his nose as he nodded and attempted a reassuring smile. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it, at least not yet, even as John settled into his arms and pressed lips to his shoulder.

\----

John limped lightly over to the couch, hot cup of tea in his hand, still welcome and comforting even though he couldn’t consume it. While the last few days he had walked without any sign of a limp, it seemed unreasonably difficult today, stiff and awkward. And terribly annoying, certainly, as it seemingly came and went without reason.

It was dreadful out, he realized, as he peered down the window, watching as people staggered and struggled with their umbrellas through the wind and rain. He glanced over to Sherlock, the man still engrossed in his program reader at the table, pouring over the copious readouts John’s CPU had copied over.

He tugged at his bottom lip with a tooth, before looking back upside and out at the clouds.

“What do the readings say?” He asked over his shoulder, hearing a frustrated noise come from the repairman in response.

Head still turned to the window, John heard the distinct sound of something small, perhaps a pen, being tossed against the wall in frustration.

“No idea.” Sherlock stated, sounding greatly displeased. “According to these you’re just… you’re perfectly normal for a sixth-generation. No error messages. No anomalies. Just nothing. You’re normal.”

“Wow, quit sounding so happy about it.” John replied under his breath.

“It doesn’t explain your limp!” Sherlock stated, gripping his equipment and shaking it, as if it were all the tool’s fault. “I don’t know what could cause it, outside of psychological.”

John perked briefly and turned. “Psychological?”

Sherlock nodded, “Well, in our eh, human psychology, one might categorize it as psychosomatic. If you in-fact _were_ human, it would be my immediate deduction.”

“As in, it’s all in my head?”

“Mental disorder brought on by trauma. Which, again,” Sherlock pointed an accusing finger to the read-outs. “Doesn’t make sense, as you are not human and as your circuitry is working fine.”

“Other than the fact that I don’t obey any of the Laws.”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock conceded. “Although I’m not considering that as problem anymore.”

John gave a grim smile as Sherlock sat back down, swiping the pages from the table and reading through them once more.

They settled once more into an easy silence. John cleared his throat.

“Still raining.” He commented bleakly.

“Mm.”

He glanced at Sherlock, unsure if the man was merely hearing, instead of listening. There was certainly a difference between the two with the man. The other remained firmly fixated on the equipment in his hands, frowning.

He glanced back out the window. “Just hasn’t been a lot of sun, last week or so.” John murmured, reaching to touch a hand to the cold pane of glass.

“Mitigated speech is dull, John.” Came the almost immediate response, and John turned and watched as Sherlock stood and made his way over to him. “If you’re worried about the lack of sunlight, you needn’t. I ordered a solar simulator just yesterday.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You what?”

“I ordered a solar simulator. It offers full-spectrum lighting for you to power accordingly.”

“How—“

“We’re in _London_ ,” Sherlock stated, motioning a hand at the rain-streaked window. “At best, there are offerings of overcast with brief, hazy spots of filtered UV rays and at worst, well.” He motioned again.

John swallowed, before giving a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course. This isn’t Afghanistan. There I’m certain you had all sorts of unfiltered UV rays.”

“Yeah, we did always have a variety of light snacks available.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Was that a pun?”

“…You can thank the American.”

\----

Sherlock downs his tea,  before pulling John's mug from the cupboard, setting it on the counter. 

“Haven’t you got an order today?” he hears John ask from behind him, rubbing ‘sleep’ from his eyes. Such an endearingly human (if unnecessary) gesture, and Sherlock finds himself wanting to kiss his programmer. He settles on spinning around and kissing John instead.

“Mm, lovely,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s mouth as they part. “Good morning to you too.” He smiles.

“Yes, I do have an order today,” Sherlock answers, placing hands on John’s waist, who wordlessly grins up at him. “Shouldn’t take long, just the one.”

“Just the one until tomorrow,” John corrects, picking up his mug.

“Ah yes, the never-ending, exciting circle of my life.”

“When exactly is your probation up?” John asks, and Sherlock’s lip twitches as he turns back to the kettle.

“A while,” he responds cryptically. “It’s up to my brother. Quite a long story, actually.”

“I’d like to hear it. Whenever you’ve got the time, of course,” John adds.

“I’m sure.” He smiles, then crosses once more and kisses John, hard, swiping a tongue through his parted lips. John responds in kind, a bit more aggressively, before breaking.

“It doesn’t have to just be that, you know,” John says as Sherlock pulls away and heads to grab his bag of equipment. “You’re brilliant, Sherlock. You could do anything.”

Sherlock snorts.

“No, really,” John insists. “Maybe open your own business with automatons. Or,” John smiles. “I know I’ve mentioned it before, but you really could be a detective. You’re bloody good at it, don’t say otherwise.”

“I wasn’t about to,” Sherlock replies, heading for the stairs. “We’ll talk later, I have to go.” He says with a wave of his hand.

John stays at the top as he watches Sherlock hit the landing, before disappearing out the door.

\----

Oh _no._

Acid dread shocks through his system as he steps out and slams the cab door, staring at the jet-black, military grade vans parked up and across the street. A neighbor is in her dressing gown, hair up in a bright yellow towel as she speaks to an officer. Another with a large German Shepherd goes across the street. More are making knocks on nearby doors.

A security check? _Now_? His heart drums as he pulls out keys, skipping up the steps, trying to hurry but also appear casual. Out of the corner of his eye, he already has caught the attention of a taller soldier. Sherlock rushes inside and gently shuts the door behind him.

_Stay calm, stay calm_

“Joh—“ He stops as he turns, John halfway down the landing already.

“That was quick,” John says, and he goes to Sherlock, who drops his bag to the floor and grips the other by his biceps.

“You need to hide!” He hisses, and he tenses immediately as he hears padding up the stoop steps.

“Hide?” John’s brow drew down with concern. “What for? Sherlock-“

There was a loud knock at the door, pounding and insistent. John froze at the sound, and Sherlock gave a territorial, irritable hiss in frustration.

“Open up!” Came a muffled shout, followed by a pounding that Sherlock could feel in his bones. “I’ll break it down if I have to!”

“Christ, Sherlock.” John swallowed and reached, cupping Sherlock’s forearm gently. “It’s fine. Okay? It’ll be fine.” John’s eyes visibly flinched with another loud bang.

“You’ll—“ Sherlock began desperately as more banging commenced.

Feeling more panicked than he wanted to let John know, he pushed John against the wall, tucking him behind the door if it were to open.

Sherlock reached the knob and twisted, pulling it open with an angry yank.

The armored man, who had been poised to take another wallop at the door, stared at him with little incredulity. He straightened up and his eyes look a quick, unnerving survey of Sherlock’s body, up and down, before peering over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Good afternoon, Sir,” he barked, the formality forced. “Conducting a routine search of illegal contraband in this area. Are you the sole inhabitant of this residence?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said in a tetchy tone, planting his food directly behind the door, anticipating a forced entry he was fully prepared to stop.

The man gave him a hard stare, before, “Our sensors indicate two bodies in this residence.”

“Yes, my landlady.” Sherlock said immediately. “She lives in the building, but not in my flat.”

“Your landlady.” In a tone that was clearly unimpressed. “The one I just saw leave four minutes ago?”

How he continued to appear composed almost bored, Sherlock wasn’t sure. It was only John next to him keeping him calm. _Protect John_ , _keep a clear head._ “What is it you think you’re looking for?”

“Mr. Holmes, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.”

“How do you—“

The man looked down at a tablet in his hand, gloved fingers pressing and flicking the screen. Sherlock leaned to glance at the images as they sliced through the monitor. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, aged thirty-six, two counts of possession and distribution of illegal narcotics, one count of illegal possession of retrofitted organ replacements, and one count of illegal salvaging. You’re on probation, Mr. Holmes and a search of this property will commence. Now, step _aside_.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Sherlock stated quickly, feeling John tense beside him.

“Neither is your non-compliance.” Came the impatient retort.

John’s hand slipped into Sherlock’s and squeezed once, an affectionate pulse that skipped through Sherlock’s heart. John tugged once, and Sherlock turned to look at him.

“ _Run_ ,” Sherlock mouthed on the other side of the door, terror bubbling inside his chest. John gave him blank, slightly worried stare in return.

Before anything could be done, the door was shoved once, twice, and Sherlock stumbled back, hand disengaging from John’s. The soldier entered, a scathing look shot to Sherlock before he wheeled, staring at John behind the door.

“Come out from there!” He barked once more, and John gave him a once over before walking calmly out. The man gave a violent shove at him, but John had planted his feet, and he didn’t budge, not at inch. The man gave an irritated huff and glared.

 _John, what are you doing?!_ Sherlock wanted to shout, frightened beyond words as an additional soldier came through the door.

“What we got?” The new soldier to enter inquired, and the first solider jerked his chin to John.

“Illegal Bot by the looks,” he replied, scanner up at the ready, pointed at John, hand-pad swiping through records. He turned to Sherlock, “Says it was de-commed a while back. So, what you got this thing for, hm?”

“He’s my—“ He stopped, horrified at his pronouns in front of them, and looked at John, who was bristling with anger.

“I’m not a _thing_ ,” John growled.

“John!” Sherlock barked, and made a rushing movement, completely irrational, and was soundly blocked by the heavy arm of one of the soldiers, forearm knocking right into his chest.

The soldiers stared at John, stunned, before they gave each other a startled look. Then, “Call it in.” The second soldier to enter detached a radio from his shoulder as he returned outside.

“NO!” _Oh no oh my God, please oh my God._ “He’s… it’s just my uh, I’m a repairman. I work for the government—“

“Mr. Holmes, we’re aware of what you do while on probation. Do not _move_.” The man made an exaggerated movement, almost for show, as he slowly slid a metal baton from his belt holster.

“I have my ID card just up the stairs—I’ve been repairing him. It. I’ve been—“

“Sherlock,” John warned suddenly, hand slightly raised as if that could stop him from easing toward the stairs.

“Mr. Holmes, if you move again I will ensure you do not walk for a very long time.”

“He’s—it’s been tricky, the CPU is damaged, can’t very well—“

Everything happened so quickly, Sherlock might have blinked twice and it would have been all over. However, his eyes remained wide as the soldier threw up his hand, baton raised in the air, then watched as the man’s arm was soundly gripped by John mid-air and twisted, the machine bringing him to the floor with a hard jerk, down and to the left.

“You do not touch him!” John snarled, the soldier’s eyes wide in fright, and Sherlock stared, before running to the door, opening it with a jerk.

“Throw him out!” He shouted, even as John was making the move to do just that. With brutal strength, John lifted the soldier up from the ground by one arm and heaved, throwing the man out and down the stoops.

Sherlock shut the door with a slam, throwing the bolt and lock on as he grabbed John’s arm, pulling him up the stairs.

“Sherlock—“

“Shut _up_ , we have to move, now!”

He was shaking, never so sick with fear, but his mind remained fixated on that single thought—protect John. He knew if only he could keep calm and focused, he could make this work. He released John’s wrist as they entered the kitchen, and made a move for his room.

“Sherlock! Stop—“

“I have money,” Sherlock called from the hallway, shoving open his bedroom door and diving for the second drawer of his dresser. “We’ll leave through the fire escape.” He scrambled, finding the large rectangle of a wooden box, hands shaking as he opened it, quickly counting the cash, before slamming the lid closed.

“Sherlock, hey,” John beside him now, trying to touch his shoulder. Sherlock shook his head, turning away and shoving the box into John’s chest.

“We need money and uh, we might be homeless for a bit, uh, well, a while, but I have contacts. Should still, anyhow. Or we can find a hotel down in the—“

Sherlock stopped as he watched John stare at the box in his hands, eyes searching and disbelieving. He looked suddenly so small and unsure, such a disparity between the angry, violent outburst that overtook him just moments before.

“John, please,” Sherlock said, numb, flinching as a two bangs in succession came from the landing area, followed by a crack. “They’re coming, we need to go. Now!” Sherlock flew to the window, shoving aside a heavy curtain as he began to work on the latches.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock stilled, and turned, heart pounding painfully. He was going to explode. There was no way the human body could possibly contain so many emotions at one time. He stared as John gave him a very small, sad smile.

“I love you.”

“John—“

There was a horrible, frightening sound, not quite a gunshot, as it rang higher in pitch yet it was just as loud. It jumped through Sherlock’s skin and rang through his ears, and then John fell like a stone, face slack and blank as marble slate, landing with most hideous _thud_ Sherlock had ever heard.

The box toppled over, money spilling from its hold.

The stun was immediate, quicker than any slit to the throat, and Sherlock found he could only stare, horrified.

“John?” It came out as a whisper, hardly a breath of air, disembodied shock rippling through his skin.

“Oh, Sherlock,” came a soft, disappointed murmur from the hallway, but it sounded so very far, far away as Sherlock stared at the body, unmoving. “Again?”

_That voice._

Sherlock turned his head in a jerky movement, the rest of his body anchored in space, as his brother watched him from the doorway. A soldier was to his immediate right, holstering a bulky, unusual looking handgun. Sherlock slowly brought his gaze back to Mycroft, nearly in a daze.

“EMP Pistol,” Mycroft explained, taking another step forward and giving a casual, dismissive glance to the body on the floor. “My understanding is it puts those things right down.”

_Electromagnetic pulse_

“You… you…” Sherlock swayed and looked down at John. No rise and fall of his chest and back. His dull blue eyes were open, unmoving, staring off blankly to the right. “You killed him,” the words cracked something inside his chest. Something precious and irreplaceable spilled out of his body.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Mycroft scowled. “With the newer designs it simply stuns them into submission. They are then taken by the Disposal teams and destroyed properly. And it was never _alive_ , Sherlock. Good God, it’s that thing you created as a child all over again. I should have been keeping a much tighter leash on you after all. Never matter,” his brother brushed a hand down his arm, as if wiping away a mess only he could see. “It will be dealt with accordingly,” he nodded to a soldier, who made a move toward John.

Sherlock’s legs buckled, but he managed to make his way over to John before collapsing entirely, a hand resting on his back. John was cold and stiff and Sherlock felt a shudder make its way through his body.

“Wait, don’t!” He held a hand to the soldier, who stopped and looked to Mycroft, unsure. “Don’t. Mycroft.” He swallowed, scrambling to collect his thoughts. Scrambling to appear calm and rational even as he felt himself shake apart. “Don’t take him, please. I’m begging you!” Sherlock shouted, and he felt his cheeks warm, tears running unchecked. “Please I’ll—I’ll do anything. I swear to God, Mycroft, look at me! Anything! Cameras in the flat, any and all work-orders or assignments, anything. I swear to you.”

“You are embarrassing yourself—”

“I don’t care!” He hovered his arm over John, feeling bruises form on his knees but he didn’t _care_. The soldier seemed to wait once more for another confirmed order, and if he made another move, Sherlock knew he would react violently. He wanted to tear the one who shot John to pieces and set what was rest on fire.

“I need him! I can—I can fix him just let me have him, please. He isn’t dangerous. He… He makes me better. Makes me want to be better. He thinks I’m…” Sherlock’s throat hitched once more, hand rubbing John’s back mindlessly, as if attempting to soothe. “He thinks I can be more. He thinks I’m brilliant, Mycroft.” And he smiled, eyes crinkling and causing more tears to fall. “And he loves me. I can be more than what I am. I can help people. He makes me want that, please. I—I love him. _Please_. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me _again_.”

Mycroft continued to stare, face an unnerving, unreadable mask. He drew his slithery gaze down once more, not as dismissive as the first glance, but still oddly blank, before drawing his eyes once more to Sherlock. Glancing once to the soldier, his expression hardened, and he drew himself to a greater height.

“I will show you a small consideration,” Mycroft gave a heavy, yet quiet, sigh. “I will not make you watch this time.”

Sherlock lunged at his brother, legs surging up and arms outstretched and before he could even think— the breath is driven straight from his lungs, the soldier’s fist catching solid under his ribs. Sherlock collapses, bruised knees hitting the floor once more, air struggling to heave into his body, as the soldier brings an arm down once more and his world goes black.

 

\----

 

The human body is incredible, Sherlock muses, dragging a wet cloth over his skin, warm water pounding down on his head. He washes by rote memory, stepping out, drying, clothing himself in a large T-shirt and blue-white pajama pants, collapsing onto the couch in a heap. Everything is so disconnected; the entire process feels like one single movement.

His concussed skull had healed, only two stitches required before he was released from the hospital. Incredible. A split head, all that bright blood, and only two small stitches, holding it all together. He received no pain medication, which was perfectly fine. He found he couldn’t feel anything anyways.

He can’t bring himself to sleep in their—the bedroom. The bed. The sheets remain a rumpled mass, duvet halfway on the floor. He grumbled irritably that during his last assignment, John hadn’t even made it up. _Bloody lazy machine._ The thought pierces deep, and he feels like crying all over again, burying his face in his hands.

The first day home he stayed on the couch, finding himself drawn to it, night after night. Even now, for an unnamed reason, it brings him a bit of comfort, though he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

_You trust me?_

_Yes. I do._

He pulls the heavy, plaid quilt over his body, still shivering, not having bothered turning on any heat. He finds he doesn’t care. That at least the cold lets him feel something.

He _despises_ his thought-process as of late. He is not one to wallow and yet, he feels broken.

To his surprise, he drifts off to sleep for several hours, exhaustion finally catching up to him, dragging his body into slumber. The door buzzer startles him out of REM.

Throat dry, he coughs, and heaves his body up. His head pounds. He finds he doesn’t care.

Throwing the quilt off him, he drags himself up to stand. Despite the pretense of a buzzer to be let inside, the door opens and shuts, a murmur just down the stairs.

He could be imagining it, but the flat suddenly feels ominous, and his hackles rise as his brother reaches the top step, an envelope in hand.

Mycroft, to his credit, looks suitably concerned, eyes no doubt taking in every detail of his younger brother’s appearance.

“Well, good to know you are at least bathing,” he says with a sniff, creasing the paper in his hands once.

Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen, standing behind the table, needing a barrier between him and the elder Holmes before he does something truly horrific. There is a surprising dichotomy brewing: a strong desire to murder his brother with every sharp implement in London, and a wish to crawl away in misery and defeat. It’s certainly a strange feeling. His head pounds even more, body beginning to shiver again.

_I don’t get a happy ending_

He can’t win, so what’s the point? He’ll never be as clever, as important, or as malicious as Mycroft Holmes. He cannot _win_. No doubt even if he did make a move to harm him, bodyguards would rush from the stairs or drop from the ceiling. Perhaps even a sniper on the roof across the street. Who knew?

Wary, Sherlock merely shrugged. “Is that my next assignment?” He asked dully, not even gathering the will to gesture to the paper in any manner.

Mycroft gives him a scrutinizing gaze. “I never meant to have you harmed, Sherlock. That officer has been reprimanded.”

Lord only knew what _that_ meant. Sherlock looked away. “Alright.” He said tonelessly. Funny how Mycroft only seems concerned about his physical ailments. He says nothing else.

He stared at the scarred wood of the table, not able to even look at Mycroft out of his peripheral.

“I didn’t imagine you would be this heartbroken,” his brother said quietly.

Heartbreak. This emotion does have a name. It _hurts_ , and Sherlock blinked hard, but remained still. “Alright.” He repeats.

Mycroft is silent for a beat. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why I am delivering your orders personally?”

Is he curious? He thinks about it, unsure of the answer. He can’t bring himself to care either way. He shrugged.

Mycroft adds another unnecessary crease to the envelope, contemplative, before placing it neatly on the tabletop.

“Only the one for today,” he comments as he takes several steps back, running a hand down his waistcoat, straightening it. “I’ll take my leave.” Mycroft nods his head once, attempting to meet Sherlock’s eyes. When that doesn’t yield results, he makes his way to the stairs.

Sherlock waits until the first light step of his brother connects with the stair, before circling the table and snatching the vanilla-envelope. He tears the paper from the side, slipping out a single sheet of paper, and a silver IDent implant.

Frowning, gently palming the small, fragile implant, he reads.

_Identification Unit #219-838-1_

_Military War Bot #219-838-1 Identification transfer to Administrative Associate Unit_

_JOHN H WATSON_

He can't breath. Fingers tightening on the papers, so forceful they might just rip, Sherlock begins to shake, the pounding in his head intensifying.

“Not surprising the flair for the dramatic runs in the family.”

Sherlock turns, fully prepared for heartbreak. Fully prepared for any and all voices to be an illusion. Fully prepared to realize nothing and no one is there, however someone is.

John’s smile is broad but slightly hesitant, standing at the top of the stairs in an apprehensive manner, arms at his sides, hands clenched into fists.

Sherlock stares, anchored to the spot, as John clears his throat and motions with his head down the steps.

“Mycroft asked me to wait at the bottom. I didn’t want to risk anything else so…”

“You’re alive,” Sherlock whispered, legs finally moving, body finally making its way to John.

“I’m okay,” John smiles, and it’s watery as Sherlock cups his face, skin warm to the touch. “Sherlock, I’m okay,” John repeats.

Sherlock reaches, gripping John more firmly around his frame and the other leans into the embrace, burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks into John’s hair, hands running along his back, assessing, still slightly disbelieving.

John pulls back just enough to speak. He’s shaking his head but smiling at the same time. “Your brother had me re-commissioned. He wasn’t able to let you keep me after the whole…. Commotion. With another soldier there, apparently…” John drifts off. “I was brought to Disposal, where he questioned me briefly. Now I’m here, with you, with my IdentCard re-numbered, officially, as an Associate.”

“An Associate… An assistant.”

John nodded. “Yes. I believe I’m your next work order,” John held out his arm, pulling up his jumper to reveal his bare wrist. “Ready to be given my new IDent and assignment.”

Sherlock pulls the other to his chest, kissing hair, his temple, his lips, before pulling back and clearing his throat several times in a dismissive manner, feeling his heart well up so much it just might burst. “Well, yes. Let’s get to work, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> If you're interested, there's a fantastic, 7-minute short film that I drew some inspiration from, along with the original prompt. It's great, [check it out on YouTube](http://youtube.com/watch?v=PPCw09-DNFg)
> 
> Thanks for all your kudos and comments as well, and for sticking with me. I appreciate it!
> 
> [BelladonnaQ.Tumblr.com](http://belladonnaq.tumblr.com)


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